


Rewriting History

by waterflower20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterflower20/pseuds/waterflower20
Summary: When everything seems lost, Hermione Granger makes a decision that could save them all. Using a gift from the late Albus Dumbledore, Hermione along with Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, travel back in time, determined to stop Voldemort's reign of terror once and for all.





	Rewriting History

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in fanfiction(.)net, I've put the story on hiatus to work on revising it; I've added a lot of new material, and changed completely the Prologue, so I chose to post the revised chapters here, until the revision is complete, and I can switch the chapters. 
> 
> I hope you'll like the story! ***Also, I do not currently have a beta, so if anyone is interested, drop me a message!***

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing.

 

**A/N:** Canon until the final battle; when Harry had to choose life or death at that train station, he chose to move on and die. Neville did kill Nagini, Molly did kill Bellatrix, but Voldemort didn't die. The battle was won but the war waged on.

 

**Rewriting History**

**Prologue**

 

**July 30 th, 2000**

 

Punch, kick, spin, duck, kick, twist, punch, thrust, duck, thrust.

 

Hermione repeated the motions, her mind focused on her routine as she twirled the dagger in her hand, her wand vibrating in the other as she non verbally cast protective spells to shield her from her assailants; her sparring partners, Neville and Luna, tried their best to break through her defences, but the petite witch was too fast, she moved her body too quickly for any of their hexes to actually land on her.

 

They continued for another hour, their bodies shining with perspiration, their shirts soaked through with sweat, and their extremities trembling with fatigue; it wasn’t until Hermione felt light-headed from hunger, that she called out to them, sheathing her dagger and wand in their holsters.

 

Neville excused himself to go tend to his plants in Grimmauld’s small greenhouse; Kreacher would deliver him lunch there soon, as was the normal for the dark haired wizard. Ever since his grandmother was brutally murdered as payback for Neville killing Antonin Dolohov in battle, Neville chose to isolate himself whenever he was at Headquarters, only emerging from his greenhouse for bathroom and sleeping breaks, and to train with her and Luna.

 

As for Luna, the formerly quirky blonde had lost some of her brightness during the war; witnessing her father’s torture and murder had killed her light, and Luna was a mere shadow of her former self. Gone was the naivety of her youth, her eyes no longer dreamy, but dark with painful memories. She didn’t enjoy being alone, too afraid of the shadows to truly feel comfortable in solitude, so she sought Hermione out whenever she was in the Headquarters, desperate to attach herself to one of the few people she cared about that was still alive.

 

Hermione didn’t know when the three of them had become each other’s rock, but she knew Luna and Neville were the two people she could count on to pull her back when the memories became too much; when the darkness came calling, she rushed to them, begging them to help her forget.

 

They had fought side by side, they had killed and had witnessed each other killing, they had seen loved ones die, and they had hunted down the responsible ones and killed them in retribution.

 

They had seen each other at their worst, and they had stood by them.

 

Hermione kicked her door shut, taking off her shirt with a grunt, her back still aching from the fight two nights ago; the Death Eaters had ambushed them in Diagon, and Hermione had suffered a bout of Crucio when she’d failed to notice Rodolphus sneaking up behind her.

 

No matter how many times she had suffered under that curse, it still hurt like hell. Madame Pomfrey had warned her that she risked permanent nerve damage if she weren’t more careful, but the young witch had not listened.

 

How could she be more careful? This was not a child’s play, this was war! Would her opponents take it easy if she told them she was hurt? No, they’d use it against her, so she had to toughened up, she had to learn how to function through the pain, so she could overcome it.

 

The last few years had been hard, and the future did not look as bright as she had thought it’d be when she was a kid.

 

Their victory at the Battle of Hogwarts had not meant the end of the war like she had hoped; Voldemort had retreated and regrouped, keeping himself secluded, and sending his Death Eaters to fight in the battles. He would not risk himself, with no Horcruxes to guarantee his immortality.

 

The Order had gained ground the months after that victory; not only Voldemort had lost the battle, but some of his more competent wizards and witches had fallen as well, Bellatrix Lestrange the more prominent one. His army had suffered great losses, and he’d needed some time to reinforce his authority over his remaining troupes.

 

That had given McGonagall and Kingsley the chance they’d been waiting for; viciously leading attack after attack on known Death Eaters, and earning the allegiance of foreign Ministries and Magical Creatures and Beings, the Order had managed to take over the Ministry and St Mungo’s within three months.

 

Harry’s death, instead of discouraging people, had actually been the catalyst for many to actually join the battle, and openly align themselves to the Order. Their numbers increased tremendously after they won back the Ministry.

 

Minerva, no longer blinded by her faith in Dumbledore, had realised the double game the Headmaster had been playing all along, and how his actions had cost Harry his life; pushing aside her hurt feelings and grief, she had taken control over the Order.

 

Along with Bill Weasley, she rebuilt Hogwarts’ wards, this time around, employing House Elf and Goblin magic in the design of the wards, ensuring no Death Eater would be able to break them down again; it had been Hermione’s idea to combine their own magic with other creatures’, after witnessing Dobby’s apparition within a warded room. As a whole, the wizarding folk hadn’t really considered the possibility that a creature might possess as great magic as they, so they had dismissed elven and goblin magic as inferior.

 

The Goblins were eager to offer Kingsley their support in exchange for wizarding protection; along with their magic, they offered access to the vaults of many known Death Eaters and to shut down all accounts belonging to still roaming Death Eaters and known Voldemort sympathizers, thus cutting Voldemort’s funds off.

 

Not a fool by any means, Kingsley had agreed, placing the bank under the Ministry’s protection, and affording them the same measures of security he implemented in the Ministry.

 

With that money, Minerva was able to acquire and secure several safe houses all over the country; some were even properties of Order members who donated them to the cause. Each house had a House Elf bound to them, and each elf was the Secret Keeper.

 

With the exception of McGonagall and Kingsley, no one else knew the whereabouts of every safe house for their own protection; each individual Order member was assigned to one, and they were only able to apparate to the warded basement, and were unable to leave that room until the Sentries – a three person team stationed in every house, all chosen by Minerva herself, – confirmed their identities and loyalty.

 

Hermione had stayed in the Weasley family house for three months, until Minerva had summoned her and Ron to Hogwarts, a grim expression on her face.

 

Ron had destroyed half the office after Minerva informed them that Harry’s Will had been found; evidently, the Boy Who Lived had not been as ignorant of the danger he had been in as they all had thought.

 

Ron and his family, Hermione, and Teddy Lupin had all been named recipients of Harry’s fortune, with one significant exception; Grimmauld Place. The Manor was to be left to the Order, to be used as a safe place.

 

They’d been allowed two days to grieve, before Kingsley had pulled them both aside, and told them, point blank, that they were fighting a war; they had no time to mourn, not if they wished to take Voldemort down.

 

They all worked together to combine Blood, Elf, Goblin and their own Magic to raise new wards around the estate, since its location had been compromised; Professors Flitwick, Sprout, Slughorn and McGonagall, along with Bill, Fleur, George and Hermione created a wide area charm that protected the whole neighbourhood, and blurred the mind of any one seeking out Number Twelve.

 

The house itself was Unplottable, had anti-apparition and anti- port key wards installed, and the floos had all been disconnected and destroyed. Furthermore, Hermione had worked with George to figure out a way to use his creations to booby-trap the whole street as an extra security measure, and nearly a year after they started, they succeeded.

 

The streets surrounding the Manor House were essentially a mine field for Death Eaters.

 

After months of testing its safety, the Black Manor was re-established as the Headquarters of the Resistance, and temporary safe house for new recruits; after their initial assessment and training, they were reassigned to other teams, based on their particular skill set.

 

The security measures in the safe houses rivalled that of the Ministry; they could not risk even the possibility of a Death Eater masquerading as one of their own, or a turncoat, so they had taken every step to prevent that.

 

Each Resistance member bore a specialised, Runic tattoo, all designed by Professors Flitwick and Babbling, and a team of curse breakers led by Fleur and Bill; that tattoo was their unique identifier as an Order member, since it was only visible to others bearing the same marking. It allowed them to apparate directly in the secure basement of the Headquarters, where they were put through a series of tests to verify their identity and intentions – those tests included Legilimency, and a dose of Veritaserum, – before they were allowed entry to the main house.

 

The Ministry itself, was a fortress; after shutting down all entrances to the place, with the exception of the main entrance, which had been reconstructed like Gringotts’ Thief Waterfall, ensuring every visitor and employee that came through were who they claimed to be, different guards and Aurors were guarding the place twenty-four/seven. No one could apparate, or port-keyed in, and new security protocols had been implemented as well; regularly, yet randomly, the employees would be tested through Veritaserum, and would be checked for any signs of the Imperious curse, or any other curses or potions.

 

St Mungo’s Hospital was similarly guarded; only medical stuff and the Aurors guarding the hospital were allowed to carry their wands in the premises, and the same security protocols as the Ministry had been implemented.

 

Professor Flitwick, now Deputy Headmaster, worked hard with the rest of the staff to ensure the school’s safety, and their attempts were successful, especially after Hermione handed him Marauder’s Map, the tool they needed to make sure no impostor was walking in the grounds.

 

Neither Hermione nor Ron had wished to return to the school after the Final Battle, especially after they’d found the Pensieve and its contains; they could not forget the fact Severus Snape had not been the traitor they had thought him to be, nor the way Dumbledore had manipulated them all in his twisted game.

 

Minerva, the only one who knew the truth, had instructed them not to reveal anything; she made sure Severus’ name was cleared – Hermione still recalled the fury in the attacks following that revelation. Evidently, Voldemort had not taken the news of Severus’s true allegiance very well, – but she had kept Albus’ true nature a secret. It wouldn’t do to sully the name of the greatest Light-oriented wizard of their time; Minerva had pointed out that his memory still held sway in the public eye, so revealing the truth about his part in Harry Potter’s death might have catastrophic consequences for the Order.

 

Hermione respected McGonagall immensely, and even had affection for the elderly witch, but she resented her a little for forcing them to pretend Albus was a paragon of light and purity, when the wizard had known Harry was a Horcrux for _years_ and had told no one.

 

If Albus had not played his games, maybe Harry would still be alive today.

 

Every morning she opened her eyes and the memory of his death invaded her thoughts, her chest ached; his passing had been, and still was, devastating to her. And to Ron.

 

Not only had he lost a brother, but a best friend as well, all in the space of a few hours. And unlike his sister, who threw herself in the battle with a fury Hermione had not seen in the petite witch before, Ron chose to distance himself, and only spend time with his brother, George, in his room for ‘experimentation’.

 

The two of them secluded themselves, only leaving the house to join the battles, and when they did… Dear Merlin, Hermione still had nightmares about the aftermath of the first battle the brothers joined since Fred and Harry’s passing.

 

George might be the creative one, but Ron had always been a natural strategist; the time they had spent isolated in George’s room, they had planned, and worked on developing new hexes and curses to use against their enemies.

 

They moved slowly in battle, targeting individuals and small groups of fighters, and used their newly invented spells on them, spells George had created or improved upon to avenge his twin.

 

They had seen wizards burn from the inside out, their eyes melting within their sockets, and their brains licking from their ears as they’d screamed. She’d watched, horrified, as a witch had lost all the skin of her back, the black miasma that had been George’s curse slowly digging beneath her muscles, making her convulse, black foam forming in the corner of her mouth as she died.

 

Demonic Duo, that’s what they called them; Ron and George were not pulling their punches any longer, and they were feared and revered among the Resistance ranks.

 

Frightened by her youngest sons’ furious madness, Molly had sought Hermione out, and had begged her to reach out to Ron, to pull him back from the dark path he’d been walking. She’d tried, mostly to appease Molly and to reassure her conscience that she had tried, but she’d failed; and she was thankful for that.

 

She loved Ron, but the war had changed them, irrevocably so. They could no longer be together, not with Harry’s memory looming over them, and the reality of what they had become in order to survive and ensure the Order’s victory.

 

Ron was beyond her help, simply because she was lost herself.

 

Luna and Neville were the only ones that knew how far into the darkness she had fallen.

 

After the dust over the battle had settled, Hermione had busied herself with finding a way to destroy Voldemort once and for all.

 

The magic they’d been taught at school had done nothing to save Harry, so she’d delved deeper, in the areas of magic that she’d been warned to avoid as a young witch. Dark, light, it meant nothing to her anymore.

 

If it gave her the tools to destroy that abomination, she’d sacrifice her very soul to accomplish it.

 

After catching her practising an ancient, dark spell, Professor McGonagall had warned her not to let her thirst for revenge consume her, but she had not listened.

 

Knowledge had always been her saving grace, and knowledge was power; so she’d wield it, forge her mind into a weapon and turn herself into a warrior by any means necessary.

 

Her first taste of Dark magic had left her reeling, her blood pumping in her veins, making her dizzy with euphoria; burning with it, she’d sought out a way to relieve the adrenaline fuelled tension.

 

She found it in Charlie Weasley.

 

The second eldest Weasley son had been visiting Grimmauld to drop off some provisions, and had decided to stay the night; their friendly banter that day led to a night of passion, that neither wished to repeat the morning after.

 

She had not regretted losing her virginity to him, but his relation to Ron made it impossible to continue their tryst.

 

So, she’d looked elsewhere for release after she submerged herself into the study of ancient, some times Dark Magic. Never one too familiar with her, and never more than twice; it wouldn’t do for feelings to develop, not then.

 

When she wasn’t out in missions, or training with Luna and Neville, she practised; using dolls, duelling comrades, she practised, growing stronger, faster, more skilled every day. Harry’s loss burnt deeper in her heart with each day that passed, demanding her to avenge him. She needed Voldemort gone, and she had to be the one to do it.

 

Not only her duelling abilities – a subject she had always been found lacking before, – grew, but her magical power as well; within eighteen months, not only she could perform every spell in her arsenal non-verbally, but she had started mastering wandless magic as well. After all, what use was a wand if her opponent managed to disarm her? A Death Eater wouldn’t be stupid enough to engage in hand to hand combat if they had the magic advantage.

 

Still though, she had not neglected her physical training, and had developed her fighting skills along with her magical, urging her friends and allies to do the same.

 

In the meantime, people watched, and they talked; rumoured to be the brightest witch of her age, Harry Potter’s best friend, the one who had saved his life many times before, _and_ the one who had managed to evade Voldemort for months, when wizards and witches twice her age had fallen pray to the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger had grown to be a fearsome witch.

 

Despised for her birth, and abhorred for her ability, the young witch was Voldemort’s worst nightmare; she was the living embodiment of everything he hated, and the proof that his propaganda about blood superiority was unfounded.

 

Realising the influence Hermione had over the younger generation, Minerva – stowing away her doubts, and regret for the additional stress she’d add on Hermione’s shoulders, – allowed the rumour of Hermione being Harry’s successor to spread.

 

They needed someone to look up to, and Ron was clearly not in a condition to lead them, so that burden fell on the young witch’s shoulders.

 

So Hermione Granger replaced their fallen hero. Harry had died so she could rise, and she hated it and herself for it.

 

Hated how people looked up to her, expecting her to be something _more_ than she was; hated how Kingsley had asked – ordered – her to limit her excursions after Rodolphus Lestranges’s latest attempt to off her.

 

They needed her alive, they told her.

 

She was their hope, they placated her.

 

She could spend her free time studying and training, her friends consoled her.

 

Hermione cried herself to sleep every night.

 

Despite being emotional, Hermione had always been highly logical and pragmatical; her decisions were always based on hard facts, not emotions or hopes.

 

Voldemort was a narcissist, power hungry, and furious at the destruction of his Horcruxes; he would not back down and end the war. The only reason he had yet to join a battle, was probably because he was searching for a way to replace his Horcruxes. And as intelligent as he was, it was only a matter of time before he found another way to achieve immortality.

 

They needed to end this war, and soon.

 

So she trained, and fought, growing stronger every day.

 

The only ones keeping her sane were Luna and Neville.

 

Not that she hadn’t tried to push them away, she certainly had, but they were not as easily cowed as the rest.

 

_"He'll kill you," she cried desperately, her wand hand trembling._

 

_"He's going to kill us no matter what, Mione," Neville pointed out stubbornly, her wand bruising his throat as he stood his ground. "I killed Nagini. We are Harry's friends and we fight against him. What do you think he’ll do if he catches us? Invite us over for tea and biscuits?"_

 

_"You can't push everyone away, Hermione," Luna told her logically, her soft hand coming to rest on her raised one, slowly pushing it down. "We care about you and we aren’t going anywhere. Deal with it as you see fit."_

 

After that confrontation, she had cried for two hours straight, her arms tight around Neville, Luna’s hand caressing her bushy hair.

 

They were her closest companions since then, always training with her whenever they weren’t out on a mission, or going through their own periods of melancholy.

 

Along with Minerva, she worked to figure out her friends’ strengths, and she soon realised Luna was not inclined to offensive magic; but her innate talent in defensive magic made her invaluable. Not only her shields were unnaturally stronger, but she had a talent in ward creation and weaving. Her unusual way of thought allowed her to combine Arithmancy and Ancient Runes in ways she or Bill would never have thought, and she used precious and semi precious stones to fortify her wards and shields, stowing energy in the rocks in order to strengthen the wards tied to them.

 

Neville on the other hand excelled in offensive magic; after conversing with him, Hermione came to realise that Neville’s unfortunate performance in school was the result of his wand. Although he had loved his wand dearly, having belonged to his father before him, it just had not been suitable for him. It wasn't an accident that after he changed a wand after their fifth year Ministry adventure, his performance had grown exponentially.

 

Recognising his potential, Hermione had asked Kingsley to have his Aurors train Neville in combat, and the results had been outstanding; he lacked Harry's natural effortlessness in battle, but he more than made up with hard work, and determination. He was quick, flexible - after hours of physical training - and his reflexes were faster than normal. Neville was quickly growing to be one of the most skilled, and powerful wizards in their ranks.

 

And even though he and Luna didn’t approve of her studying dark magic, they didn’t stop her when she found a book about magical cores, and decided to work on that; more in the Grey area of Magick, Core Magick was ancient, nearly forgotten, and powerful.

 

Theoretically, like the blood flowed from the heart, a person’s magic had to flow from somewhere. It was part of them, yes, but it wasn’t accidental that until they learned how to properly harness their power via the use of spells, that their magic only manifested through often violent outbursts in emotional stressful times.

 

That part of them, that place was their magical core; it had no physical location inside the body, it was more a spiritual endeavour for one wishing to access it, but it was vital to a magic user.

 

If properly trailed, one’s magical core could be utilized; if one were to know how to tap into that pure, raw magic source, they could – in essence, – accelerate healing, straighten spell casting or infuse their potions in order to make them more potent.

 

And if the need ever arose, or someone was that desperate, they could unleash the magic in their core, which would manifest in a magical explosion. Depending on one’s raw power, the explosion could be a small burst of sparks, or an actual blast. For someone of Dumbledore's power, the explosion could potentially demolish an area the size of Hogsmeade.

 

It was that danger that had made the Ministry forbid the study of Core Magick, but it was exactly what Hermione needed to tip the scale of the war in their favour.

 

Neville had yet to manage the mental state required to find his core, but Luna had done it in three weeks. Since Hermione had needed four months to do it, she was bloody impressed with the blonde witch.

 

Under her advice, McGonagall allowed Luna to study healing magic with Madame Pomfrey three times a week, and the younger witch was only allowed on field missions if Hermione or Neville were with her. They were the only two people who could calm her when her panic attacks hit.

 

Cursing under her breath when her side throbbed, she towelled off, and put on clothes, the chill in the air making her shiver; it was always cold in the Manor, no matter the fact they were currently in the middle of summer.

 

Using a drying spell on her hair, Hermione secured her wand in her wrist holster, and left her room, her stomach grumbling.

 

A soft thud from above made her halt, her eyes narrowing as she looked up.

 

Dread pooling in her stomach, she tapped her middle finger on the base of her palm, her wand sliding into her hand immediately. Raising a shield behind her back, just in case, she approached the staircase, and slowly climbed to the second floor.

 

The window at the end of the corridor was slid open, letting in sunlight, but the dreary atmosphere only heightened her discomfort; something was there, she could sense it, pulling her to a room she had not visited in years.

 

Harry’s room.

 

Her breathe coming in short pants, her hands sweaty, she fought the nausea twisting her stomach, the terror lurking in her heart. _Go, go, leave! Don’t go in there!_

 

_Harry’s room._

 

Shutting her eyes, tears slid down her cheeks as she remembered the summer before their fifth year; his beautiful, green eyes sparking with indignation for being left aside. Their conversation in the attic after Arthur’s attack.

 

“ _Don’t worry, ‘Mione,” he whispered, tagging her close for a hug. “I’m going to be fine, we all are. Promise.”_

 

He had not kept his promise.

 

And she hated him for that.

 

A soft glow shone under the door, and she swallowed, the memories overwhelming her, _his_ voice making her choke with grief.

 

“ _Oh, come on, Mione! I really did my best!”_

 

_"If you want to go back, I won't blame you. You can take the cloak, I won't need it now."_

 

“ _I think you've known as well... Why I feel them. Why I can look inside his head, why I can speak to snakes.”_

 

“ _You are a genius, Hermione!”_

 

Shaking, she took a deep breath and unlocked the door with a wave of her hand; the door creaked open, allowing the light to stream through.

 

God, it was the same. Everything in the room was just as Harry had left it their last night there, before their risky invasion in the Ministry.

 

Clearly McGonagall had kept her promise and had warned every one to keep away from Harry’s room, but Hermione had never dared check; she couldn’t find the courage in her heart to come in there, where Harry’s memory was stronger.

 

But now, now she was walking through the door, her eyes travelling from the fallen sock under the bed, to the rumpled pyjamas strewn across the half made bed, a book lying open on it.

 

Reaching trembling hands, she lifted it up, a sob leaving her lips when she saw which book it was.

 

_Quidditch Through The Ages._

 

She had given him that book.

 

For the first time in nearly two years, she collapsed.

 

xxXxx

 

They found her hours later, curled on his bed, his jumper held tightly in her arms as she sobbed; Luna pulled her to her arms, rubbing her back comfortingly, and murmuring soothing words. Neville wrapped them both in his arms, offering his silent support as he held them, his own breathing laboured as he fought against his own sorrow.

 

“It’s all right,” Luna whispered, kissing her forehead. “Everything will be fine, promise.”

 

Hermione raised her head, ready to snap that no, it wasn’t and wouldn’t be alright, because Harry was dead, he was dead and she was not, and they wanted things from her, they wanted her to be like him, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t be, and how could things be okay when she was fucking broken –

 

A flash of gold light, a haunting lilting song filling the room.

 

Hermione froze, her eyes wide. Neville and Luna both stared, mouths open at the bird perched on Harry’s desk, its’ red and gold feathers simmering.

 

"Fawkes...?"

 

 


End file.
